Phantom of the French Quarter. Colleen Thompson
sensuality in the small gesture, one that left Marcus too aware of their closeness in this cramped room, of the gulf of need that hollowed him out when he looked into her face.
In his mind’s eye, the thin mattress grew feather-soft and cloud-thick. The worn cotton sheets rewove themselves from sumptuous threads of wine-rich silk. She lay back, her rain-tangled hair brushed to a fine sheen and splayed out against the heaps of fluffy pillows.
Looking away, he bit down hard on his tongue, desperate to bring both his imagination and his body to heel before she noticed and really did scream.
“Paine was furious about it,” Caitlyn admitted in answer to his question. “But he never would’ve lost me if he’d kept his hands to himself.”
Marcus’s focus snapped back to her. “He put the moves on you?” He all but growled the question, a dark possessiveness roaring through his veins. If this Josiah Paine had touched her…
She shook her head, then lifted her hand toward the lump. “Ow—no. I didn’t mean that. He just—he always had a temper. But one day he took it too far.”
“How far?” Marcus ground out.
A delicate flush colored the exposed skin above her breasts. “One night he accused me of holding back tip money.”
“What did he do?”
“The jerk shoved me, and I walked out. Started my own company, Villar-A1 Tours.”
“Revenge?” he asked, as his own subconscious crept in that direction. Imagining himself pummeling a man he’d never met for a woman he hadn’t even known at this time last night.
What the hell’s wrong with me?
Picking up the matchbook and turning it around, she pressed her mouth into a grim line. “Turns out, it’s not as sweet as I expected. Especially not if Josiah’s insane enough to have killed poor Megan Lansky.”
“That’s the dead girl?”
Caitlyn told him about the student who had been reported missing, and how Megan had told her friends she was going on a cemetery tour. “The police thought about mine first, because of the resemblance and because I found her, but what if she went on one of Josiah’s? He leads groups himself some nights—he’s actually quite good—when one of the regular guides takes a night off or he’s short-handed.” She wrapped her arms around herself and added, “His employees tend to quit a lot. Or he gets mad and fires them. He’s kind of famous for it. If I’d known when I first came to town…”
“Then the police are investigating him?”
“I doubt it. He seems to be a drinking buddy of some of the detectives. They acted like his temper’s nothing but an old joke between—”
Cutting herself off, she began looking around, lifting the covers. “I really need to call Reuben. Where’s my bag? My cell phone?”
“Sorry, but I didn’t see them.” Marcus picked up the receiver of the phone at his elbow. With a meaningful look, he passed it to her, and then forced himself to sit there, his jaw gritted, while he waited to find out if she would rain fresh hell down on his head.
CAITLYN FOUGHT TO LOOK AWAY and couldn’t, held captive by the grim resolve on his face. Whatever she did or said, she realized Marcus wouldn’t try to stop her. Wouldn’t ask for help in keeping his involvement hidden, no matter what it cost him.
Though he’d cared enough for her, a virtual stranger, to bring her first the photo and then the matchbook from the crime scene, he expected nothing in return. Not even hope’s ghost lived behind his storm-dark eyes.
Thunder murmured in the distance, followed by an answering frisson of awareness that sparked along her backbone. Alone inside this room, he could have done anything while she lay helpless. Could have but hadn’t, only watched over her instead. Praying she would waken, he had told her.
Surely those details said something about the man he was. Perhaps more than the fact that he was avoiding the police.
Forcing herself to drop her gaze to dial and wait for an answer at the other end, she barely squeezed out a syllable of greeting before Reuben’s worry blasted through the phone line.
“Are you hurt, girl? Where did you go? I’ve been goin’ crazy lookin’. Called out half my buddies from the force to try to find you.”
Her eyes stung at the pain she heard in his voice. Pain that Marcus had inflicted on a man who had shown her and her sister nothing but kindness since the day they had arrived in New Orleans.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted. “So sorry you were frightened. What about the tour group? Everyone okay?”
“No one hurt, just shaken.”
“And you?”
“You answer me first, chère,” Reuben shot back.
“I’ll be fine. I just…” She wanted to explain, but Marcus’s regard, the weight of his bitter expectation, stopped her.
Looking into his dark eyes, she imagined she could almost hear him saying, I’m already in the wind, so I don’t give a damn what you do. How long had it been since anyone had offered him the slightest support?
“This is so embarrassing,” she said, astonished by the words that poured out. “When the lightning struck, I just—I panicked, Reuben. I don’t know how else to explain it. I ran and ran before I understood what I was doing.”
Marcus lifted dark brows in a question.
“I tripped,” she added. “I must’ve hit my head. When I opened my eyes, it was pitch-dark. So I got up and started searching for you.”
“What? Where are you, Caitlyn? Let me come and get you.”
She slipped her hand over her eyes, hiding from her own lies. “I would’ve called before, but I lost my purse and my phone—”
“I’ve got ’em,” Reuben told her. “But where the hell are—”
“That’s great. Thanks, Reuben. I’m safe. Really.” Some trained actress, she thought, recognizing the too-swift cadence and high pitch of her own panic. “I ran into a friend, and he’s putting me in a cab. I’ll be home soon. We can talk there.”
“What friend? What’s this number you’re calling from? If you’re in trouble, just say ‘okay.’”
“I’m not in trouble, promise,” she said lightly. “See you in a little bit. Bye.”
“Caitlyn, don’t hang—”
Guiltily, she replaced the receiver, handling it as carefully as she might a stick of dynamite. And ignoring it moments later when the phone rang and rang and rang.
MARCUS SAW SHE WAS STILL TREMBLING as he sat beside her on the bed and pulled her into his arms, unable to resist the tidal force of the impulse washing over him. Because against all odds, Caitlyn seemed to see him, the man behind the fugitive. She sighed against him, her body relaxing into his embrace.
It was more than anyone had done in years, and though he’d meant only to comfort her in her obvious distress, the result unleashed a passion that had him tipping back her head and slanting his mouth over hers. The shock of contact, the warm, full wetness of her mouth beneath his, sent raw desire spearing through him.
Yet he pulled back when she froze like a fawn. Pulled back to whisper, “You never need to fear me. To fear this, Caitlyn. Never…”
Half expecting her to scream or slap him, he waited, his breath held with the worry that four years punctuated only by the most fleeting and unsatisfying liaisons had cost him the ability to read a decent woman’s cues. Had the connection he felt been a mirage formed out of loneliness and need?
Heat bloomed in her green eyes an instant before she closed them, leaning forward a bare fraction of an